


Death Knell

by idiotbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Post-Episode: s05e22 Swan Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiotbrothers/pseuds/idiotbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's no good at grieving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Knell

Sometimes, when Dean was caught in that gritty place where the morning light hadn’t yet broken away the remnants of a dream, he’d forget Sam was gone. He’d rub the grit out of his eyes and turn lazily onto his side, expecting to see Sam’s prone form on the other bed, Sam tapping away incessantly at his laptop, Sam scowling and bitching and eating his prissy  nonfood. But when his gaze cleared and his memories realigned themselves like a slap to the face, he’d know that the other bed was only there because he’d taken to asking for it out of ritualistic need, and that Sam had leapt into Lucifer’s cage months ago.

Three months and five days, Dean chanted to himself on one particular morning, after the knife-edged twinge of remembrance had faded into the usual muted ache.

He stumbled out of bed, nudging the empty bottles strewn on the floor out of his way, and got the first aid kit out of his duffel. The night before, he hadn’t felt up to dealing with a wound sustained from a chupacabra, and so he’d fallen asleep (or, what passed for sleep since Sam had disappeared) with drying blood and pus forming a foul-smelling crust around the gash in his arm. He dealt with it quickly, doing just enough to clean himself up and dispel the signs of infection already setting in. He imagined Sam taking one look at his wound and yelling at him for being a reckless dumbass…after which he’d probably insist on dressing it himself. Dean cringed away from the thought, heart hammering, grabbed his keys and marched out the door of the motel room in the clothes he’d slept in, his morning routine more or less done. He hadn’t showered or brushed his teeth in almost a week.

Outside, he took one look at the impala, painfully bright in the noonday sun, and decided he could walk to the nearest diner. He didn’t think he could do it today; ride around aimlessly with a Sam-shaped indent in the passenger seat, surrounded by the overpowering smells of gasoline and leather and home and his brother. More than once, he’d started to contemplate trading in the car for any cheap bucket of bolts that he didn’t intimately associate with Sam, but he always chickened out of giving it up for good. He started jogging down the block, boots pounding satisfyingly against the pavement, warm wind slapping his face. He ran faster and faster, across streets, around corners, trying to outrun the memories clamoring for attention in the back of his head. The wound in his arm ached with every movement. He’d run unheedingly past several suitable diners before finally slowing and choosing one at random, panting and shaking with exertion as he stepped through the door.

He knew he looked like shit these days, but it still managed to surprise him every time some waitress greeted him with open distrust printed all over her face. He ordered a cup of coffee and, after some reluctance, a slice of pie, sending his waitress scurrying off without so much as a second glance. The one thing he’d noticed about her was that her name-tag read ‘Samantha’, eliciting a bitter half-smile and a sharp burst of nostalgia that he stifled by focusing on the unfaltering throb of his arm. When his food arrived, he took scalding gulps of coffee (spiked with whisky from his flask, as per usual) and stared blankly out the window, ignoring the cooling pie until he’d finished the mug. He couldn’t remember if he’d eaten anything the day before, but judging from the hollow pang of his stomach, he felt compelled to disregard his complete lack of appetite today. He picked at the crust of the pie with his fork, recalling a time when he’d have happily eaten three pieces for breakfast, alongside whatever greasy bacon-laden thing he’d have ordered. He set down the fork and reached for his mug before remembering that he’d already drained it.

As it turned out, he left the diner without eating, leaving the untouched pie sitting forlornly on the table overlooking the window. He set out lethargically for the motel, though he didn’t entirely remember what route he’d taken to the diner. He dragged his feet and took occasional swigs from his flask as he walked, trying not to let his mind wander to dangerous places. He managed, by some small miracle, to find his way back to his room, fumbling the door open and collapsing in a heap in the middle of the floor. His face was pressed into the carpet, which smelled faintly of dog piss. He didn’t bother moving, eyes dragging shut as he spiraled into a restless sleep, thick stripe of daylight from the window shining mockingly over him.

He was forced to climb back into consciousness when he felt a strange, warm pressure on his back. Dean sat up reluctantly, head spinning, and felt at his back in confusion. Whatever it was, it was gone. Or imagined. A look out the window revealed to him that the sky had leached into the dark of evening while he slept, another day come and gone with nothing to show for it.

He scrubbed at the sudden wetness on his face, shocked to discover that he was crying. Fucking useless, he thought, pressing his hands hard against his eyes like he wanted to flatten them into nothing. He couldn’t muster a single tear in the moments after Sam had jumped, or even in the dreadful first month that followed, when he was trying to cobble together a pathetic, parasitic existence with Lisa and Ben. He didn’t cry after he left them, telling Lisa that he was no good for anyone in this state. He didn’t cry when he found his amulet buried at the bottom of Sam’s duffel, carefully wrapped in a piece of newspaper. But now, when he had nothing left to lose and there was no use in caring anymore, he could cry.

Useless.

Dean smashed his fist into the wall, over and over and over until he couldn’t feel the pain shooting through his hand. The tears continued drip down his face, hot and unrelenting as harsh, ugly sobs wrenched their way out of his mouth and he clutched at his chest with his other hand, like he was dying. He stopped when the odd sensation he’d felt earlier returned—a soft push at his shoulders that seemed to be coming from nowhere. Confused, he raised his hand to wipe at his foggy eyes, but noticed the damage he’d done to his knuckles, skin raw and torn and mottled with oozing blood. He jumped when a gentle puff of air blew across them, standing up defensively and trying to locate his shotgun.

“Who’s there?” He demanded of the empty room, looking around for signs of spiritual activity.

He almost had a heart attack when a resounding crash came from the kitchenette, making him scramble for his gun and rush over to investigate the source of the noise. The contents of a shelf had been upended, sending Dean’s pitiful stash of canned foods he didn’t intend to eat tumbling to the floor. An unopened box of alphabet soup had ripped open as it fell, and its contents were scattered all over the tiles.

“I know you’re in here,” Dean growled, holding his gun level and turning to slowly survey the width of the dingy kitchen. He saw something move in his periphery, and swiveled in its direction, hairs on the back of his neck rising at the sight of the tiny letters on the floor slowly rearranging themselves. 

**ITS ME**  

"Who are you? Show yourself!" Dean’s pulse was quickening in anticipation of a struggle, injuries all but forgotten. 

**SAM**

His vision blurred, grip on his gun slipping. Rage ripped through him, and he had to fight to hold himself together. “Come out so I can send you to hell, you lying fuck.” The letters took a longer time to respond, and Dean grew impatient, shifting his gun from side to side as he tried to figure out where he should be pointing it. 

**REALLY ME I CAN PROVE IT**  

"If you don’t stop jerking me around  _right now_ , I’m gonna blow this whole place to bits and hope you’re standing somewhere in the line of fire.”  

**PLEASE**

"Okay, that’s it." Dean fingered the trigger, all set to shoot, when his eye unwittingly caught on the phrase it was hurriedly spelling out.  

**JULY NI**

He froze, wanting to see where it was going with this, despite himself. 

**NE SIX FIREWORKS**

July ‘96 fireworks? Dean clenched his teeth, something dangerously close to hope taking root inside of him. It doesn’t mean anything, he told himself. Just a coincidence.  

**MY HEAVEN TOO**  

A lump formed in Dean’s throat, dislodging any semblance of a threat from his voice and leaving it pitiable and low. “Please stop. I can’t—I can’t let myself think—” 

**STAY WITH YOU**  

Dean set his gun aside—anger dissolving entirely and giving away to sheer exhaustion—and smothered his face in his hands, fresh tears beginning to seep through his fingers. ”Go away,” he choked out, “I’m letting you go, so get the fuck out of here.” He almost wasn’t surprised when he felt cold, invisible hands touching his face, smoothing ineffectively over his tear-streaked cheeks. He didn’t resist it, letting the icy touch run over the length of his body as he slumped and felt sorrier for himself than he ever had before.

When he removed his hands from his face after a while, he noticed with a jolt that the ghost had materialized some, had manifested as a flickering, muddy silhouette that hovered at a slight distance away from where he was crouching.

"Dean," it whispered, a quiet but unmistakable hiss of a sound that crept sinuously into his ears. And he suddenly couldn’t breathe, because that voice sounded like—

"Sam?" He implored quietly, feeling dangerously off-balance. With a disorienting burst of color, the silhouette filled out, revealing long hair and plaid and feet that hovered a couple of inches off the floor, and Dean’s capacity for rational thought broke down once and for all. 

"Took you long enough," Sam said, forehead creased with frustration. He looked down at himself, eyebrows shooting toward his hairline. "Woah,  _finally_. I’ve been trying to make myself visible for months.” 

"Months?" Dean squeaked, gaze riveted on his brother’s translucent face. Sam held his hand up and peered through it curiously, watching it warp when he passed it in and out of Dean’s shoulder. "Yeah, months. I’ve been like this ever since…y’know, but I couldn’t figure out how to corporealize until now. This ghost thing is a pain the ass. Would’ve helped if you weren’t so clueless." His look softened, and he tried to touch Dean again, only to be reminded of his physical limitations. 

"Wait, so you’ve…you’ve been here for all of—" Dean swallowed thickly, badly wanting to draw Sam into a hug. He reached up to trail his fingers along the space where Sam’s jaw should’ve been, warm flesh brushing against a chilly haze of dense air. 

Sam didn’t notice, because he was focusing intently on his hand, flexing it like he had some goal in mind. ”There!” He exclaimed suddenly, nodding at his hand in assurance. Dean couldn’t tell what the difference was, until Sam took his hand in his own, and it almost felt  _real_.

"Baby steps. I’ll get there soon."

Dean looked at their entwined hands, then back up at his brother. And he smiled. 


End file.
